[So... definitely unexpected. The self-flagellation holds itself at bay and Tommy exhales, pushing dark curls back off his forehead. Next door, Jessie's voice has risen; Joel's really pissed in her cornflakes this time. Better to focus on his phone.]
Would rather help you break down than bury you, if I'm being honest.
[ If she wasn't hamming it up to make Chrissy laugh at them and trying to come up with quippy insults that she knows are just convincing Stevie to tackle her for real, she might try to come up with a line or two, but she's a little busy right now. ]
also i'm pretty sure if you build me a coffin you're actually helping stevie and not
[ There's no end to that statement, because Stevie finally triumphed and knocked Eddie's phone out of her hand and then got her in a headlock. ]
[But his mind is already sinking, filling in lyrics to fit with "help you break down". Any time it happened I'd get over it, with a little help from all my friends, anybody else could see what's wrong with me, but they walk away and just... pretend? Tommy shakes his head. Later, maybe.]
So just need extra hands after the set? Heard some hands got food poisoning though honestly I think they had it coming. Who eats ceviche at a music fest?
[ Her response is much more delayed this time than in times previous, but she does eventually respond. After Stevie manages to turban up her hair with a purloined merch shirt that obviously didn't sell because the stupid festival got mostly rained out.
Not that that stopped Eddie and her Dead Girls, though. They've dealt with worse. She's still trying to convince the festival coordinator that they can go on stage and it's fine, and by she she means Chrissy, who is good at talking to Real Adults and who people actually listen to.
Eddie's only good at talking to Real Adults when she wants to pick a fight with them. ]
yeah that'd be great. and we're just midwest hicks, man, you can't blame em for trying to live a little.
[While Tommy's waiting (yeah, he's waiting), he pulls on a fresh t-shirt even though he showered and changed after their set earlier; the rain's made everything muggy in a way that bothers the skin. He's never been to Indiana before - Miller Brothers only got called in last minute to fill a hole in the schedule because their sound matched the local vibe.]
Take it from a native, chica. If the food truck signs aren't in Spanish then it's not worth the chance. Those boys'll be living on the toilet tonight.
[He just sent that shit to Eddie Munson. Dios mío.]
[ "A native" could mean any number of things, but the fact that it's followed up with "chica" does narrow things down a little. Eddie's trying to figure out who the hell would have her number — that she doesn't already know — who's at this festival, who also speaks Spanish, and who used to work in construction.
Most of the people who'd have her number are guys on her crew, and while some of them took high school Spanish, she doubts they're comfortable enough with it to make sweeping judgements about the quality of food on offer.
They would absolutely make a joke about shitting your brains out, though, so that doesn't raise any eyebrows. ]
like i said. they're trying to live a little.
[ And then, because she, too, took high school Spanish, she tacks on: ]
[Tommy chokes on his swig of beer as his screen lights up with that last and if he wasn't blessed with the complexion he's got, his blush would be a lot more noticeable. You feel comfortable throwing that at strangers, girl? He doesn't type it.]
[Poor Tommy; speaking of shitting your pants - that's what he'll be doing if he ever has reason to see his number until that contact name in her phone. From the hall, a door slamming. Wonders if it's Jessie or Joel. Or was that thunder?]
Not gonna help their stomachs but your call. They actually gonna let you play in this?
i fucking hope so. there's still fans out in the pit, we can't let them down.
[ Maybe it sounds trite, a cliche, but Eddie can't let her fans down. The nebulous idea of fans, of people who didn't know anything about her but grew to love her because of her music, because of the things she could do and hadn't yet heard the worst stories about her, was one of the main driving forces behind her getting out of her shitty hometown and making something of herself.
She's looked up to so many musicians in her life, has sat in awe as she listened to sounds she didn't know could be produced by human hands, and she wanted to be that person for someone else.
The trappings of fame — the money, the drugs, the sex — are all great too, she's not hypocritical enough to lie about that, but it's not like she's some kind of superstar. She's made enough in her career to make sure Wayne is comfortable and doesn't have to work another day in his life, and she makes enough to make sure her roadies all get paid. Even the ones who eat bad fish and wind up with diarrhea in the middle of this fuck-ass field. ]
i've played in worse.
[ She's half-expecting Chrissy to go on stage with a rain poncho thrown over her clothes. Eddie definitely won't, but that's mostly because she's never owned a raincoat in her life and she's not about to start now. Stevie is more of a toss-up; she's loosened up a lot in the years they've been touring, but there's enough of the pageant princess prom queen left in her that sometimes she gets really difficult about things Eddie thinks are no big deal. ]
i guess if management says no we can just hold an unplugged set out in the parking lot.
[Eddie and the Dead Girls at this bumfuck fest, unplugged in the parking lot in a storm. Fuckin' hysterical.
But turns out it was definitely Jessie; Tommy hears the door slam back open and his brother holler as he storms after her - she's a goddamn teenager, it ain't like she's out there sellin' hardcore drugs! - and sighs to himself. There isn't anything for fixin' something that broken.]
[ It would be sick as hell and would make an incredible story. Eddie's tempted to convince Stevie to get with the program so that they can strong-arm Chrissy into playing along and doing it no matter if they get the OK from the higher-ups or not.
LOL. Capital letters and everything. Who is this guy? ]
Ah what? No, I didn't say that. I dunno. You guys are big. You ain't worried that something's gonna get outta hand? They're not gonna let you do something like that.
[Tommy realizes that the little brother and second-fiddle (figuratively, they don't have a fiddle) in a band just gettin' its legs under itself probably shouldn't go around telling someone like her what she can and can't do.]
Sorry. Listen, my advice doesn't amount to a fart in a whirlwind.
Eddie has a lot of faith in E&tDG's fans, but they're also just people, and Papi's right. People, in large enough groups, tend to do stupid shit. Eddie knows that very well, and only partially because Does Stupid Shit is her middle name. She remembers full well how easy it was to whip up Hawkins into thinking she was some kind of satanic cult leader, a succubus luring their impressionable babies down the dark path of tabletop roleplaying games and too much soda pop.
It's possible if they play a set somewhere without any kind of barricades, someone will try something stupid.
She still kind of wants to do it. ]
nah. you sound practical. like someone i should probably listen to.
[Sure that Joel wouldn't agree; he'd just go and cite all the times he's had to pick Tommy up from the station when he gets into bar fights. It's been a while since that happened, but Tommy's still sure that Joel's not whispering to Sarah that her uncle's the paragon of good decisions.
...guess maybe it's saying something, then, how fast he put down Eddie's idea about an impromptu acoustic session in the parking lot.]
[ She gets distracted by Chrissy slamming back into their green room, steam all but coming out her ears beneath her perfect strawberry-blonde waves, the temper she keeps ruthlessly locked down when dealing with their manager or other executives finally unleashed as she unloads on Eddie and Stevie about just how condescending men in this industry can be.
Eddie, currently texting a Man In This Industry — at least, she's assuming he's a man, he hasn't said, but there were some hints — says nothing to incriminate herself. ]
no dice. chris has sweet talked them into letting us play an abridged set but only as long as there's no lightning.
[Chris? Tommy ain't gonna ask. Eddie's obviously got a right to whoever she wants; he himself is just some grunt who'll help haul speakers after her set while she goes and has fun.]
Well then we say a little prayer to Saint Medardus and you'll be just fine.
[He glances at his watch. The hall, the room next door, they're quiet. Maybe Tommy'll just get himself another beer and catch a show in the rain.]
[ Eddie has always admired the vibes and the aesthetic of Catholicism, but growing up in the armpit of Indiana has kind of soured her on the idea of religion as a whole and Christianity in particular. Which has always been a real bummer. Mass sounds way cooler than whatever bullshit they were spewing from the pulpits of the churches she grew up around. ]
save your prayers for after, papi. i think whoever's in charge here is about to get murdered by a 5'2" ex-cheerleader.
[ Chrissy is still going, on a roll that Eddie finds legitimately impressive. ]
[Catholicism in Tommy looks like a lifetime of ingrained habit and a good helping of general guilt, and he doesn't step into a church unless it's Ash Wednesday or he's holding his mama's elbow and she's leading the way, but to each their own.
This time when she throws papi at him he doesn't choke; it's something more like a rough, embarrassed laugh-snort.]
[ She makes a mental note to look up what the hell tipo and vato mean, because obviously she's going to ask for clarification, but she knows better than to take a stranger's word for anything, especially when it comes to languages. ]
what do those mean? and it's too late, you're already papi in my phone.
Man, dude, guy, kinda interchangeable and don't do that. I take back chica. Señorita from now on, I swear it.
[He's appalled, embarrassed, and even worse, turned on. Shitting hell. Tommy doesn't quite manage a laugh as he pushes his phone screen to his forehead and closes his eyes. Eddie freaking Munson.
eh. i don't like them as much. papi feels good in my mouth.
[ She's not stupid. She knows what she's doing.
But also, she's serious. She likes how the vowels feel when she says them, and tipo and vato are fine, there's nothing wrong with them, but they're not as good. ]
alright papi, wish us luck. we're about to go on after all.
[Does Tommy whisper a little prayer for salvation? Maybe. Habit's a comforting bitch.]
Good luck, señorita.
[He finishes his beer and smacks the bottle onto the dressing table. Scrawls Joel a note, just in case, though he seriously doubts he'll see him before morning - gone to watch the show - and heads out, clapping the door shut behind him.]
[ Stevie's pissed about playing in the rain, but Eddie can tell it's the kind of pissed that's not that serious, that won't have lasting consequences, that's really more for appearances' sake than anything else. Chrissy shrugs into a poncho just like Eddie thought she would, and then they're traipsing up towards the stage, and Eddie lets herself sink into the familiar anticipatory buzz that's filled her veins every single time she gets up in front of a crowd, all the way from when she was playing to a handful of drunks at the Hideout on a Tuesday night.
It's Saturday, now, and there's more than a handful of people waiting for them to get on stage, but they're probably more than a little drunk. It's close enough.
Riding the wave, Eddie steps up to her mic and bellows a greeting into it, her grin splitting wide at the wave of cheers that comes rolling back towards her. She plays a chord or two, just to feel the vibration sizzle up through her, and her mouth keeps moving totally divorced from her brain, buoying her along through her typical pre-show patter until she gets the signal from the girls that they're ready.
Holding up both hands towards the crowd, ignoring the rain pelting down on her and turning her shirt translucent, Eddie waits a few breaths until things are silent enough for her to start. ]
Why can't you look at me in the eye, my friend, [ she starts, just her scratchy voice to start, before she brings her guitar in beneath to support her, ] you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head. Don't got the decency to say it with your chest... you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head, aiming at my head—
[ Stevie comes in beneath her then, the drums thumping so eagerly Eddie finds herself bouncing on her toes in time, and then Chrissy joins and they're off.
It's a rough show, with some of the equipment dying out for a few seconds, just long enough for Eddie to scream at the crowd to sing along — at the do, belting out her own lyrics back at her loud enough that she hardly misses the speakers at all until they come back on — and she slips on the stage and nearly gives herself a concussion at one point, but they manage to pull it off nonetheless. ]
[It's pissing rain, but that doesn't stop Eddie and the Dead Girls from playing and it sure as hell doesn't stop Tommy from watching. And while the crowd starts out smaller than the band deserves, by the time the amassed wet souls are yelling lyrics back at the stage to fill the void left by the speakers (how does she take that so in-stride? when the guitars peel back out across the field it feels like it was maybe intentional, like maybe they all standing there were complicit-) the act has drawn more bodies to fill the open patches where grass has become mud and they're getting closer to each other's shoulders as everyone moves to the heavy rhythm that carries the girls through their set.
Tommy had never heard of E&tDG before he and Joel got pulled onto this particular circuit late, about two months ago, to fill in for some pop bluegrass act that dropped out over "creative differences" that apparently included a keg dropped onto the drummer's foot. He'd caught the set the first time entirely by accident and had stood there watching, pulled by the crowd and the vocals of the lead singer, into being almost an hour late for a dinner he had to catch up with a few Ironside buddies.
He's listened to everything since then. The records. The shows. Some bootlegs that had surfaced - and not been subdued, it seemed - of videos from concerts taped back when the band were still openers that had started to draw crowds bigger than the acts they were fronting.
She's like a goddamned avenging angel up there.
By the time the set's over and the girls have vacated the stage and left the dark field vibrating in the aftermath of heavy bass and raw vocals, Tommy's drenched but happy, his nerves buzzing pleasantly under his skin. The crowd loses it's focus and begins to straggle toward the exits as the pole lights pop on with heavy thunks, signalling the end of the night. No more encores, no more show. The vendors and food trucks that had fought against the rain begin to pull down signs and shutters. One more tour date struck through the list. Tommy doesn't have the black tshirt that designates crew, but pushes his muddy boots up toward the stage and security lets him through with a flash of his lanyard. He swaps a fist-bump with Terry, who manages most of the sets - including The Miller Brothers - and gets put to work.
Thoughts of the text-chain on the phone in his pocket aren't even on his mind as he ties wet curls back into a small tail and starts unplugging equipment. Not sure he'd deny having a school-boy crush on the lead singer if asked but tonight? Ain't nothin' but work to be done. Acts don't stick around to break-down; there's no dumb hopes sitting on his chest of a few sent messages meaning anything more. He's a fan but he's also a musician himself and the shine of brushing elbows gets worn down pretty quick. Eddie doesn't know anything about him beside an unlisted number. Tommy trades jokes with guys as he coils wire with sharp, fast strokes. The rain's lightened to a tossing spit that looks like snow in the hard overhead lights and they're in good spirits.]
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Would rather help you break down than bury you, if I'm being honest.
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[ If she wasn't hamming it up to make Chrissy laugh at them and trying to come up with quippy insults that she knows are just convincing Stevie to tackle her for real, she might try to come up with a line or two, but she's a little busy right now. ]
also i'm pretty sure if you build me a coffin you're actually helping stevie and not
[ There's no end to that statement, because Stevie finally triumphed and knocked Eddie's phone out of her hand and then got her in a headlock. ]
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You, yeah.
[But his mind is already sinking, filling in lyrics to fit with "help you break down". Any time it happened I'd get over it, with a little help from all my friends, anybody else could see what's wrong with me, but they walk away and just... pretend? Tommy shakes his head. Later, maybe.]
So just need extra hands after the set? Heard some hands got food poisoning though honestly I think they had it coming. Who eats ceviche at a music fest?
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Not that that stopped Eddie and her Dead Girls, though. They've dealt with worse. She's still trying to convince the festival coordinator that they can go on stage and it's fine, and by she she means Chrissy, who is good at talking to Real Adults and who people actually listen to.
Eddie's only good at talking to Real Adults when she wants to pick a fight with them. ]
yeah that'd be great. and we're just midwest hicks, man, you can't blame em for trying to live a little.
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Take it from a native, chica. If the food truck signs aren't in Spanish then it's not worth the chance. Those boys'll be living on the toilet tonight.
[He just sent that shit to Eddie Munson. Dios mío.]
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Most of the people who'd have her number are guys on her crew, and while some of them took high school Spanish, she doubts they're comfortable enough with it to make sweeping judgements about the quality of food on offer.
They would absolutely make a joke about shitting your brains out, though, so that doesn't raise any eyebrows. ]
like i said. they're trying to live a little.
[ And then, because she, too, took high school Spanish, she tacks on: ]
papi.
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Tell em to drink some tequila.
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She adds his number under the contact card "Papi" and snickers to herself. ]
like hell i will. i'm keeping my tequila for people who will actually enjoy it. they can drink shitty beer like god intended.
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Not gonna help their stomachs but your call. They actually gonna let you play in this?
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[ Maybe it sounds trite, a cliche, but Eddie can't let her fans down. The nebulous idea of fans, of people who didn't know anything about her but grew to love her because of her music, because of the things she could do and hadn't yet heard the worst stories about her, was one of the main driving forces behind her getting out of her shitty hometown and making something of herself.
She's looked up to so many musicians in her life, has sat in awe as she listened to sounds she didn't know could be produced by human hands, and she wanted to be that person for someone else.
The trappings of fame — the money, the drugs, the sex — are all great too, she's not hypocritical enough to lie about that, but it's not like she's some kind of superstar. She's made enough in her career to make sure Wayne is comfortable and doesn't have to work another day in his life, and she makes enough to make sure her roadies all get paid. Even the ones who eat bad fish and wind up with diarrhea in the middle of this fuck-ass field. ]
i've played in worse.
[ She's half-expecting Chrissy to go on stage with a rain poncho thrown over her clothes. Eddie definitely won't, but that's mostly because she's never owned a raincoat in her life and she's not about to start now. Stevie is more of a toss-up; she's loosened up a lot in the years they've been touring, but there's enough of the pageant princess prom queen left in her that sometimes she gets really difficult about things Eddie thinks are no big deal. ]
i guess if management says no we can just hold an unplugged set out in the parking lot.
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But turns out it was definitely Jessie; Tommy hears the door slam back open and his brother holler as he storms after her - she's a goddamn teenager, it ain't like she's out there sellin' hardcore drugs! - and sighs to himself. There isn't anything for fixin' something that broken.]
LOL, [he picks out and sends.]
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LOL. Capital letters and everything. Who is this guy? ]
you don't think it's a good idea?
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Ah what? No, I didn't say that.
I dunno. You guys are big. You ain't worried that something's gonna get outta hand? They're not gonna let you do something like that.
[Tommy realizes that the little brother and second-fiddle (figuratively, they don't have a fiddle) in a band just gettin' its legs under itself probably shouldn't go around telling someone like her what she can and can't do.]
Sorry. Listen, my advice doesn't amount to a fart in a whirlwind.
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[ Potentially.
Eddie has a lot of faith in E&tDG's fans, but they're also just people, and Papi's right. People, in large enough groups, tend to do stupid shit. Eddie knows that very well, and only partially because Does Stupid Shit is her middle name. She remembers full well how easy it was to whip up Hawkins into thinking she was some kind of satanic cult leader, a succubus luring their impressionable babies down the dark path of tabletop roleplaying games and too much soda pop.
It's possible if they play a set somewhere without any kind of barricades, someone will try something stupid.
She still kind of wants to do it. ]
nah. you sound practical. like someone i should probably listen to.
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[Sure that Joel wouldn't agree; he'd just go and cite all the times he's had to pick Tommy up from the station when he gets into bar fights. It's been a while since that happened, but Tommy's still sure that Joel's not whispering to Sarah that her uncle's the paragon of good decisions.
...guess maybe it's saying something, then, how fast he put down Eddie's idea about an impromptu acoustic session in the parking lot.]
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[ She gets distracted by Chrissy slamming back into their green room, steam all but coming out her ears beneath her perfect strawberry-blonde waves, the temper she keeps ruthlessly locked down when dealing with their manager or other executives finally unleashed as she unloads on Eddie and Stevie about just how condescending men in this industry can be.
Eddie, currently texting a Man In This Industry — at least, she's assuming he's a man, he hasn't said, but there were some hints — says nothing to incriminate herself. ]
no dice. chris has sweet talked them into letting us play an abridged set but only as long as there's no lightning.
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Well then we say a little prayer to Saint Medardus and you'll be just fine.
[He glances at his watch. The hall, the room next door, they're quiet. Maybe Tommy'll just get himself another beer and catch a show in the rain.]
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[ Eddie has always admired the vibes and the aesthetic of Catholicism, but growing up in the armpit of Indiana has kind of soured her on the idea of religion as a whole and Christianity in particular. Which has always been a real bummer. Mass sounds way cooler than whatever bullshit they were spewing from the pulpits of the churches she grew up around. ]
save your prayers for after, papi. i think whoever's in charge here is about to get murdered by a 5'2" ex-cheerleader.
[ Chrissy is still going, on a roll that Eddie finds legitimately impressive. ]
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[Catholicism in Tommy looks like a lifetime of ingrained habit and a good helping of general guilt, and he doesn't step into a church unless it's Ash Wednesday or he's holding his mama's elbow and she's leading the way, but to each their own.
This time when she throws papi at him he doesn't choke; it's something more like a rough, embarrassed laugh-snort.]
It's tipo. Or vato. Not papi.
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[ She makes a mental note to look up what the hell tipo and vato mean, because obviously she's going to ask for clarification, but she knows better than to take a stranger's word for anything, especially when it comes to languages. ]
what do those mean? and it's too late, you're already papi in my phone.
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[He's appalled, embarrassed, and even worse, turned on. Shitting hell. Tommy doesn't quite manage a laugh as he pushes his phone screen to his forehead and closes his eyes. Eddie freaking Munson.
He's such an asshole.]
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[ She's not stupid. She knows what she's doing.
But also, she's serious. She likes how the vowels feel when she says them, and tipo and vato are fine, there's nothing wrong with them, but they're not as good. ]
alright papi, wish us luck. we're about to go on after all.
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Good luck, señorita.
[He finishes his beer and smacks the bottle onto the dressing table. Scrawls Joel a note, just in case, though he seriously doubts he'll see him before morning - gone to watch the show - and heads out, clapping the door shut behind him.]
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It's Saturday, now, and there's more than a handful of people waiting for them to get on stage, but they're probably more than a little drunk. It's close enough.
Riding the wave, Eddie steps up to her mic and bellows a greeting into it, her grin splitting wide at the wave of cheers that comes rolling back towards her. She plays a chord or two, just to feel the vibration sizzle up through her, and her mouth keeps moving totally divorced from her brain, buoying her along through her typical pre-show patter until she gets the signal from the girls that they're ready.
Holding up both hands towards the crowd, ignoring the rain pelting down on her and turning her shirt translucent, Eddie waits a few breaths until things are silent enough for her to start. ]
Why can't you look at me in the eye, my friend, [ she starts, just her scratchy voice to start, before she brings her guitar in beneath to support her, ] you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head. Don't got the decency to say it with your chest... you're staring at your feet, aiming at my head, aiming at my head—
[ Stevie comes in beneath her then, the drums thumping so eagerly Eddie finds herself bouncing on her toes in time, and then Chrissy joins and they're off.
It's a rough show, with some of the equipment dying out for a few seconds, just long enough for Eddie to scream at the crowd to sing along — at the do, belting out her own lyrics back at her loud enough that she hardly misses the speakers at all until they come back on — and she slips on the stage and nearly gives herself a concussion at one point, but they manage to pull it off nonetheless. ]
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Tommy had never heard of E&tDG before he and Joel got pulled onto this particular circuit late, about two months ago, to fill in for some pop bluegrass act that dropped out over "creative differences" that apparently included a keg dropped onto the drummer's foot. He'd caught the set the first time entirely by accident and had stood there watching, pulled by the crowd and the vocals of the lead singer, into being almost an hour late for a dinner he had to catch up with a few Ironside buddies.
He's listened to everything since then. The records. The shows. Some bootlegs that had surfaced - and not been subdued, it seemed - of videos from concerts taped back when the band were still openers that had started to draw crowds bigger than the acts they were fronting.
She's like a goddamned avenging angel up there.
By the time the set's over and the girls have vacated the stage and left the dark field vibrating in the aftermath of heavy bass and raw vocals, Tommy's drenched but happy, his nerves buzzing pleasantly under his skin. The crowd loses it's focus and begins to straggle toward the exits as the pole lights pop on with heavy thunks, signalling the end of the night. No more encores, no more show. The vendors and food trucks that had fought against the rain begin to pull down signs and shutters. One more tour date struck through the list. Tommy doesn't have the black tshirt that designates crew, but pushes his muddy boots up toward the stage and security lets him through with a flash of his lanyard. He swaps a fist-bump with Terry, who manages most of the sets - including The Miller Brothers - and gets put to work.
Thoughts of the text-chain on the phone in his pocket aren't even on his mind as he ties wet curls back into a small tail and starts unplugging equipment. Not sure he'd deny having a school-boy crush on the lead singer if asked but tonight? Ain't nothin' but work to be done. Acts don't stick around to break-down; there's no dumb hopes sitting on his chest of a few sent messages meaning anything more. He's a fan but he's also a musician himself and the shine of brushing elbows gets worn down pretty quick. Eddie doesn't know anything about him beside an unlisted number. Tommy trades jokes with guys as he coils wire with sharp, fast strokes. The rain's lightened to a tossing spit that looks like snow in the hard overhead lights and they're in good spirits.]
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